


Big MacStake

by avalonroses



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, McDonald's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:49:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7827448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avalonroses/pseuds/avalonroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One burger won't spoil date night and, if Alfred's sneaky enough, Arthur will never find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big MacStake

“Oh my God, Arthur— seriously?!” the exclamation froths over in a outpour of heated frustration and Alfred feels as though he’s in the epicentre of an electrical storm being repeatedly zapped by lightning, fuelling his irritability. And Arthur’s stubbornness sure as hell isn’t a balm to Alfred’s fried nerves—with vengeful pangs of hunger stirring in his stomach, Alfred begins to question what he was thinking when he’d committed himself to an Englishman who deems himself above eating in an establishment such as McDonald’s.

  
There’s a fundamental incompatibility, there, right? How can someone not like the food that can be purchased from the glorious fast food place? It’s beyond Alfred, it always has been, but it’s never directly affected him like this before and now he really isn’t in the mood for Arthur’s weird British quirks and dislike of good, American food.

  
Don’t get Alfred wrong, he loves Arthur, he really does, but the guy is a damn pain in the ass sometimes and Alfred doesn’t have to patience for his uppity resistance when he’s famished enough to consider eating the old tomato ketchup sachets in his glove compartment just to keep his stomach from collapsing in on itself as Arthur refuses—outright refuses—to go into the McDonald’s that is on the road opposite them.

  
All it would take is cutting across one lane of traffic and a two minute crawl in the traffic to reach the drive-thru. It’s not as though Alfred wouldn’t still eat at the restaurant, because he would, he has a notoriously bottomless stomach and an appetite to suit its demands.

  
At this point, Alfred’s sorely tempted to abandon the surly Arthur in the car and walk around the drive-thru. Although, he’d probably just go in and order to not seem like a complete weirdo.

  
They’ve been stuck in traffic for thirty minutes now, creeping unhurriedly in a jarring stop and start rhythm towards the junction that will bring them closer to the swanky restaurant where Arthur wants to dine tonight.

  
It’s an Italian restaurant, the food is delicious, Alfred would be the first to vouch that, and he had been anticipating the creamy, cheese-soaked pasta dishes since they’d left the house, because Alfred is an avid admirer of all things food-related, but he doesn’t cope well on an empty stomach and it’s taking them too long to reach the restaurant.

  
Damnit—! Alfred had a small lunch in preparation for eating out tonight and now he thoroughly regrets that.  
Admittedly, the traffic isn’t Arthur’s fault but, as Alfred peers over at his boyfriend in the passenger seat, his expression drawn into a sullen scowl that often graces his face, though not to this intensity, Alfred thinks he’s being pretty selfish and not being at all understanding of his life partner’s digestive needs.  
They’ve been together for three years now! Arthur is fully aware of Alfred’s inability to function without having at least the smallest morsel of food lining his stomach.

  
“You can wait, we’re only another half an hour away,” Arthur huffs out, disapproval staining his voice and posture, since he doesn’t look over to Alfred and folds his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m sure this traffic will clear up.”

  
“It’s already been half an hour,” Alfred whines in return, not caring that he sounds like a child who’s been told they can’t have ice cream—that’s how he feels, after all! “If I get any hungrier, I’m gonna start eating my own arm,” the American threatens, flashing a petulant glare in Arthur’s direction, because it does appear as though his boyfriend doesn’t even care.

  
Arthur shuffles in his seat, tipping his chin up, and stares sideways at Alfred, his lips set stonily and his eyes hardened.  
“There’s salt and pepper for seasoning, in the glove compartment, if it comes to that,” the Englishman quips, and Alfred gapes at him in return, feeling as though he wants to repeatedly smash his head into the steering wheel with the infuriation that scorches through him.

  
In that precise moment, as though by some miraculous turn of fickle fate which has decided to rescue Alfred from his fate of starving to death, an advertisement on the radio pipes up, promoting one of McDonald’s recent burger deals, and Alfred’s mouth waters at just the phantom memory of the scent of a Big Mac that the advert summons.

  
“Listen, Artie, it’s a sign!” he cries, emotional, and turns the volume up. “It’s a heavenly message—McDonald’s needs us!”

  
Arthur pulls a face, as though he’s holding a lemon segment in his mouth and promptly, cruelly, turns off the radio.

  
“It’s not a bloody sign!” the Englishman barks. “Don’t look at me like that, Alfred,” Arthur says around a sigh that gentles his face. “We’ve had this booked for weeks now! I thought you were excited for this dinner, and I know you’re hungry, I am as well, but you’ll spoil your appetite if you eat before we get there.”

  
Alfred knows Arthur isn’t doing this out of spite, he wants to have a date with Alfred, wants them to have a nice meal together, which they rarely have time to do with them both working demanding, full-time jobs.

  
“I am excited, sweetheart, I’m just so hungry—it totally wouldn’t spoil my appetite! You know me, I can eat ten times more than you,” Alfred counters with an urgency that sends his voice an octave higher.

  
This is a thread he can latch onto and pull, if he sweetens up to Arthur and plays the fluttering eyelashes and puppy eyes card—Arthur, though his shell is hard and prickly, is as soft as a kitten in the centre and he is notoriously skilled at winning Arthur over. He’s more than intimate with the man’s weak spots and, even if it’s underhanded, he’s been left with no choice but to appeal to those weak spots.

  
They’re not moving anywhere; they haven’t in the past five minutes, so Alfred takes his hands off the wheel and turns his body towards Arthur, eyes softening as he regards his partner.

  
“Please, Artie, please. I promise we’ll still have a great night.” Alfred drops his voice, gravelling it in a manner that he knows has a powerful, arousing effect on Arthur. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, tone honeyed and carrying heady undertones of sexual promise.

  
Arthur’s eyes narrow and a frown etches into his face and Alfred knows, instantly, that he’s been caught.

  
“Are you really trying to seduce me so you can get McDonald’s?”

  
Alfred slumps into his chair, withering under the hurt that lurks under Arthur’s glare, because he knows he’s wounded Arthur, and he didn’t want to do that. There’s nothing worse, to Alfred, that genuinely upsetting Arthur, except maybe the hunger he’s experiencing now.

  
“Great, I need to pee now,” Alfred grumbles, gloomy, his stomach twisting and squeezing almost painfully, signalling for its desire for food that Alfred’s keenly aware of. Both his stomach and bladder are griping now and Alfred doesn’t think he can drive under this much stress.

  
“Artie, we’re gonna have to pull over, I can’t hold this in for another half an hour.”

  
Arthur releases a groan of exasperation but concedes with a:  
“Fine, but don’t you dare get anything to eat, Alfred Jones.”

  
Alfred nods, and he means it when he does, because he doesn’t want to ignite Arthur’s temper—there’s no recovering once Arthur’s genuinely livid, and he takes no prisoners once Alfred’s pushed him too far—but once they move through the traffic and park up outside the fast food restaurant, Alfred feels his resolve dissolving as his belly scrunches up, growling loudly, when he walks through the sliding doors into his personal paradise.

  
Despite Arthur’s darkly muttered threat before Alfred had left the car, the scent of tantalising, processed food seems to push the threatening gleam in Arthur’s eyes far into the depths of his memory and he’s reaching for his wallet before he has time to think.

  
He all but begs the teenager behind the counter to serve him anything that can be prepared in under a second, and, even if takes a little more than a second, the kid is fast and Alfred exchanging money and unwrapping the paper from a burger before rationality catches up to him.

  
It lasts mere moments, Alfred all but inhales the burger, but it’s oh so worth it, the meaty saltiness and combination of cheese and bread is heaven on his tongue and he wants another but knows he can’t risk that, though he does send a woeful look at the guy behind the counter before dashing out of the place, realising belatedly that he forgot to pee and that he won’t be able to for a while now because Arthur will become suspicious.

  
He’s sharp, too sharp sometimes, and Alfred hurriedly shoves a mint into his mouth before Arthur can spy him from the car.

  
When Alfred does return into the driver’s seat, Arthur looks over him, gaze needling and investigative, and a hot wave of guilt flushes over Alfred that would have given him away had it not been dark out, and he resists shuffling in his seat, knowing he’s a bad liar and what that Arthur is exceptionally skilled at spotting deceit because Alfred has so many tells.

  
Alfred had been quick enough, though, Arthur seems satisfied and they hit the road again.

  
It takes them over half an hour to reach the restaurant, and Alfred’s anxious enough to fill his stomach with more food that Arthur doesn’t become suspicious, despite the edge of Alfred’s hunger having been sated.

  
What Arthur doesn’t know won’t hurt him, after all, and Alfred’s only lied to his boyfriend so they can have a more pleasant evening, otherwise Alfred would have been unbearably impatient waiting for dinner.

  
They do have a pleasant evening, and Alfred orders the gloriously cheesy pasta dish he’d been hankering for, and Arthur drinks enough sweet wine to become softened and affectionate, in a manner that always has Alfred frothing with love for the bristly Englishman.

  
He and Arthur may have differing personalities, but they work, they always have, and Alfred’s overcome with adoration as Arthur pecks gentle kisses on Alfred from across the table and his eyes darken, glimmer, with sultry promise of what he plans once they reach their bedroom, and it sends Alfred giddy and his heart excited.

  
“We can stop at McDonald’s for dessert, if you want,” Arthur comments, and he rolls his eyes playfully, his voice tender.  
Alfred perks up, eyes brightening, as though he’s a puppy being presented with a treat.

  
“Really?”

  
Arthur simply nods, amused as Alfred woops with eagerness.

  
He messes up, however, when the bill arrives, and he reaches in his front pocket to retrieve his wallet, only to drag out the wrapper he’d squashed in there earlier, and it lands on the tablet, sitting innocuously between them. Arthur’s eyes land on the wrapper, emblazoned with a clear, unmistakable logo, and Alfred watches as the red blooms across Arthur’s face, the rage bubbling up and staining him crimson.

  
Alfred’s not getting lucky tonight, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For the USUK Summer Festival 2016.


End file.
